Copyright, Nina Bagley

2005-2014
All rights reserved.
I spend a lot of time taking photos and editing them; words take that long as well. PLEASE DO WRITE AND ASK PERMISSION before using any of my words or photographs. Thanks for understanding.

November 2007

do any of you out there still remember this old friend (you may click on the photos here for closer detail)? this book and i, well - we go way back, some six + years or more. if you look too closely, you'll see the dust from where it has sat on its spot on my shelf, a frowsy volume that is worn and creased and coming apart at the seams. but that is why i love it so: this books' flaws, its wrinkles and torn spots, its mistakes in designs, its rust and its tarnish and its frayed edges are all a reflection of me. i've carried this book, and a few of its "babies", all the way to australia, new zealand, canada, and the west, east, north and south of this country several times over again; no wonder its corners are rumpled and bent. this book taught me what not to do next time around, demonstrates what i've done right thus far, reminds me of beautiful times in waters of jamaica, on a high mountain top, and in the river close to my home. it is a sacred thing, and mine to pass down along with the others to the boys, should they want them, whenever that time comes.

this was the beginning of my "pocket book" teachings, a workshop that carried me far and near, and introduced me to some incredible people across this vast, wide world. when i thought of its design, walking in a torrential downpour (and hailstorm) six thousand feet down that mountain, i had no clue of the miles this little book would carry me. even now, this week, i am preparing twenty eight kits of eyelets, copper mesh, book covers and brads for that many public school teachers who will be taking my workshop as part of an NCCAT seminar the week of dec. 10-14 way out on ocracoke island (a 12 1/2 hour journey from here - 10 hour drive and 2 1/2 hour ferry ride), on the outer banks of this beautiful state's coast (back to the water! - if you click on the link, you'll see a photograph of the old coast guard headquarters that have been renovated for NCCAT's new coastal center, where i'll be staying, right on the harbor). so you see, i'm quite enamored with this humble little book, and feel that it has been a true and earnest friend.

i received a copy of something lovely in the mail last week: artists' cafe (best of somerset studio art and design), a chunky edition of past articles from somerset studio with many of my fellow artist friends featured (michelle ward, judi riesch, lynne perrella, angela cartwright, lynn whipple, and karen michel, to name a few); and there, nestled amongst the pages, is a reissue of my article "a pocketbook of dreams" from the nov/dec. 2002 issue. i'm tickled to see it in print again, for all the reasons i described above, in such regal, talented company. somerset has always been very good to me, and i know without a doubt that it is because of their respectful treatment of my work, theirs and teesha moore's, that i'm now able to reach out as far as i do with my work, my art, and my words. i don't work much with books anymore - i wish i had the time - nor do i these days assemble things of rust or metal into pages that turn with glass wired to the sides. after twenty three or so years as a jeweler, that craft has become a full time career these days; but come next year, i will once again be teaching a series of workshops that focuses on a book which goes beyond the page, and allows the viewer to play with his or her imagination while turning from one spot to the next. i love that about the combination of art and book - the playing, the leaping beyond the edge into what might be there if you just go beyond the normal limit. a good thing to keep in mind with life, i think.

it's funny how the mind works. one day i'm puttering around my quiet little house, tinkering with this and that, sticking to a schedule that is more or less my own, and then in swoops one fledging and in comes another, and suddenly the place is all atwitter with fuss and noise and breaks in routine, all three of us staying up until 3am laughing into the night with the warm glow of candles wrapping itself all around us - food spilling out of the refridgerator and onto the countertops, dishes piling into the sink, cars here, cars there, young friends filing in and out of the door, sitting with me - me! - on the sofa and telling me about their far-flung lives in the wild, wild world of college away from home. the days fly by, as holidays do, and suddenly here i am again, padding about this very quiet and empty house, wondering where the time went, where the boys' years as children disappeared. there was one day in there somewhere this week when both of them were gone, off seeing friends, camping in the woods, climbing on rocks, doing the things that young men in the mountains and the outdoors do, and i found myself twisting thinnest wire into tiniest nest, pressed into a tidy little woman's pocket watch case, all snug and cozy and ready for whichever bird decided to fly home. i hadn't even realized what i was doing until it was done - the nest building, the instinctual fluttering about, the scurrying and the worrying, and it showed up here, as so.

well. it was a fine week. there was a lovely hike along the little tennessee river with roy and aspen, late late late in the afternoon when the sun was getting low to the mountains and the air took on that watery winter tint it gets when the clouds come in and want to filter everything around with a soft, fine light. the land surrounding us was hushed and quiet, save for the birds who were flapping about in the tall tall grass and overhanging trees, settling in for the evening and night. there was a suspended bridge across the wide river, and it was just the two of us (well, three, including aspen, who did not like that bridge) and it was lovely to stand in the center of the river and look out all around us like a queen and her prince, reigning over the water, over the trees, over life. we threw mistletoe into the water, and watched it drift, and held threadbare leaves to the last remaining light to see what worlds had lived there in its skin and in its veins, for a season, there on the little tennessee.

winter is beginning to look up over the mountains here, and let us know it is on its subtle way. i see the signs, and can honestly say that i don't mind at all. not at all. the frost on the ground casts a beautiful light, and the trees in their bare bodies are the most exquisite forms, i think, that grace the earth. when there is such easy, natural beauty right beyond our window, it is a pleasurable thing to sit inside where it is welcoming and warm, and gaze out across what nature has bared down to its modest bones. winter is a gathering time, one when those we love draw near, and are not out so much traipsing the countryside as they are right here next to us, beside the fire, sharing a cup of tea and a memory. both boys and i sat quietly a lot this week, and talked of times past, of days we remember, of places we have been and places we want to go. and go, they do. they're gone already, again.

on this early morning, quiet and foggy and peaceful and serene, i give to you a simple message from my heart of thanks, to those of you who continue to come here to this little place called ornamental and read my words about a simple life of nature and art, who put up with my vascillating emotions that go up and down and up again, who cheer with me when things are good and lift me up when things are not. when i began this blog nearly two years ago, i did it with the notion that i'd stop if it didn't serve to make either myself or whoever was out there feel good or thoughtful, reflective, or enlightened in any way. there have been times i've wanted to throw these hands up in utter dismay and frustration, for one reason or another, and quit; yet here i am still, here you are too, and i'm thanking the powers that be for all that we've learned and gleaned from one another. i do not take anything for granted in this life anymore - it is a fine line we walk, this line between where we are as we breathe and laugh and cry and sleep and wake each day, and where we go when we are finished with that. i know that all too well now, and i take each moment of this one sweet life as a gift to be cherished and embraced. so, to those of you out there who continue to come back, time and time again - those of you who take the time to write me here, and privately - those of you who let me know you've learned a little something, or have thought a second longer about the way the light comes through your house or the wind blows through the trees, or who didn't used to walk through leaves without looking down and picking one up just to look at its veins - well, to you and you and you, i offer up these words of thanksgiving, and am so very grateful, simply, that you are all out there.

ah, late fall, when it begins to wind itself down with a whisper and circle round and round, like dogs will do when retiring for the night, until it finds an imaginary spot it likes, this autumn, this season, and settles in with a sigh. just like that. and before we all know it, we are surrounded by the quiet neutral colors of bare trees and rocks and ground, the taupes and mushrooms, beige and slate and bark, accented on sunny days by a pale blue sky, on overcast days by grey. blue, then, and soft brown, and woods that are quiet and gentle and resolved to stay put as they are for the duration of the winter months, until spring begins to pull things forth again. i really like that. i really, really do. i think it took me moving to the country and being surrounded, completely surrounded by woodland and mountain vistas (yes, lucky me) to surrender to the stark but honest beauty of winter, to appreciate the bareness of the land, the silhouettes of the branches of trees. they literally make me ache sometimes, i swear, they are so beautiful.

it's interesting how my work is affected by the seasons, and the way i react to them. and, too, how i've not been able to make myself do anything other than work in the studio, now that i've created such a fairyland of wonder in there. standing outside and looking in, i want back in. that was never the case, before. i would not have been looking in, for one thing, but would have been looking up, away, anywhere but there. and that is a very good thing. i sit at that table, as you can see there, and feel snug, and cozy, and happy doing the things that i do - pulling the snippets of this and that together, from here and there and everywhere, and creating something from nothing and everything. it is a marvelous job, this business of playing elf - most of the time. at least, the part of it where i am sitting and tinkering quietly, under the spell of the little lights and tree branches (i even placed some outside on the porch, for added woodsy appeal). it's when i have to start running around to catch planes and cabs and living on someone else's schedule that i begin to feel the unravelling, sometimes. but then, we all do. we all of us do.

this is no great photograph here, but i am fond of the bare little tree, growing right up under an enormous rock face, and i like the way this humble little tree shines like a light in the very late afternoon slant of the western sun. i took it a couple of sundays ago, before i had tackled the studio, when i was out wandering in the woods and came upon some young people "bouldering" for the afternoon. it was a splendid, magical time, and the little tree bore witness to it all. i hope you all have trees (and afternoons) like that, that shelter you and keep you company all through the year, that remind you of the changing of the seasons as they shed their leaves then grow them back again. and if not, those of you who live in big cities and are surrounded by the scapes of architecture , then do as i once did and place pictures of them here and there about your home, tacked to your bulletin board, stuck to the fridge, framed and hung on the wall. place a pine cone on your desk. some lovely twigs in a jar. remind yourself that nature is still waiting, beckoning, as soon as you can get yourself back out there....

has anyone out there resorted, finally, to kicking their modem? or shaking their computer screen? i did, last night, at midnight, before turning off the blasted thing and climbing into bed, still muttering and fussing under my breath. i was so angry at technology (or lack thereof) that i could not fall asleep, as i usually do, for a good ten or fifteen minutes; so i just stretched out there, fuming, while aspen tried to settle himself down as well. dogs sense these things (and how hard is it, anyway, to sense something when your friend is inexplicably kicking an inanimate object and growling out loud? i am referring to myself as the growler here, and not aspen).

it is no minor task for me to work with a blog, or my little shop in etsy. what takes most of you oh, five minutes to do takes me a whopping thirty, forty, an hour. or two, three, four. normally i try not to let it get to me, because i have no choice unless i pick up and move into town - something i had thought i was going to do a year or so ago, but something that no longer appeals to me in quite the way it did at the time. peace prevails here - until this #$)*%* thing refuses to behave. i tried and tried last evening, and again last night, to load one necklace - the little darling that you see above - with descriptions and photographs, and had accomplished most of the details when the whole screen went blank and everything was erased. erased! 30 minutes of what had felt like dental work, gone. vanished. into nowhere, more than likely circling the frigid air outside my little cozy house for shorter than i would have been able to see and then poof! - gone. just like that. hence, the kicking. i haven't done that in years, and it is something for which i am utterly appalled.

well. here it is, a friday, and the sun is shining brightly, and i got up, put on the kettle, brewed a strong pot of lapsang souchong (thank you misty!) and tried this thing one more time. and it worked. and the jewelry sold literally within one or two minutes, so the universe seems to be behaving itself today for me again. i wanted to share with you these images, slow as they are for me to load into the blog, because 1. they are no longer listed in the etsy shop, and 2. i wanted you to see what magic i'm working on in my sweet little studio that has now for me, most thankfully, become a place of joy and enchantment. both of the gals who purchased these pieces said that the delay in getting them listed was meant to be, for them. that makes it worthwhile, then, the fuming and the fussing, and i'm happy to know that these little works of mine will be winging their way to homes where they will be loved.

wishing you all a restful and peaceful weekend, in the days leading into our celebration of all things for which we are thankful....xx

... and so, with the lights, come the first signs of winter, little tiny glimpses - on monday came the overcast skies, and those turned (thankfully) into rain by night's fall, then on tuesday and wednesday the clouds continued to hover; then here we are today, with blustery wind and lo and behold, now snow. yes, snow. i wandered over to the big front windows just before dark was beginning to think about settling down amongst the trees and the hills across the way, and there they were, little and big snowflakes skittering sideways across my view, a horizontal dance of white that blended so delicately and beautifully with the now nearly bare bone branches of the trees that grace this place. i wished for this; i did. remember? and so, it is here. snow. i'm ready for it.

let it come.

i'm snug and happy and peaceful in my house, a quiet place way out in the middle of the county where no cars pass, where the lights suddenly went out the night before last and stayed out for three hours, and it was pitch black, so dark i could not see to feel my way blindly across the room to where i knew the flashlight stood, ready for my nightly walks with aspen out behind the house. this is what it looked like. really. do you know this sort of darkest dark? with no streetlights, no car lights, no neighbors' glaring television blinking that awful cold blue on and on and on into the night, no apartment buildings with clusters of lamps stacked story after story. when the transformer blew - and i saw it, quite an explosion - i knew i was in for the duration, and walked around this house gathering candle after candle into closer quarters so that i could read. what else to do? when is the last time you read by candlelight for three hours in a row? i do not know how the pioneers did it. abe lincoln, my foot. but, when the lights and television came roaring back on again at 9:30, i found myself both startled and annoyed, and went around turning everything back off, just to bask a little longer in the quiet of dark and pensive glow of the many candles dancing beside me, out here in the middle of nowhere on beloved firefly road.

in celebration of winter, and of snow, i've created a couple of pieces that are, i think, rather fitting for the mood, and will soon be listed in my etsy shop. be sure to take a look.

see what unfolded in the studio today? it's (finally) been a cloudy, overcast, and rainy late fall day, and i've relished hunkering down in the confines of my fairyland studio and tinkering away on this tender little beauty. i'll have to admit i got carried away, and used several of my favorite "new" antique findings on this one single piece; but who can blame me, when they all seemed to fit so perfectly together? i love that the rust marks on the doll, a result of her being buried in the surrounding grounds of a german doll factory for nearly 100 years, blend so well with the antique brass mesh of the tiny little purse, are a testament to her stamina and grace, and add as well a wisdom and new beauty to her face. the hand, one of carved stone and gold, was once part of a watch fob, and came from some recent discoveries i made in balsam, north carolina. how wonderful, then, that the hand becomes part of the actual clasp!

this little purse is a marvel in and of itself - with its separate interior "secret" compartment, into which i've tucked a vintage dollhouse set of stationery, for those tiniest of notes. there is still plenty of room for you to slip into the 2 1/2" square purse any manner of trinkets you might wish to wear next to your heart...

be proud of me, folks. stand up and applaud and cheer and stomp your feet and yell out accolades, which i will proudly accept because this - this! - was no small feat. i worked and toiled on both saturday and sunday, cussing and fretting and crawling under spaces, pulling furniture out and in, moving boxes here to there, filling FIVE large plastic bags of garbage to overflowing (don't ask), and standing in the middle of the room for more times than i care to admit and wailing, "where do i begin?!". it wasn't pretty. i was a mess, and my body at the end of yesterday, as the light begin to dim outdoors, was an aching lump of muscles that had not been used that way for years. but - and i exaggerate not when i tell you this - when i finished as much as i could for this stage (there is one wall left to conquer, and no, you will not be seeing photographs of it, i do have some smidgens left of pride inside of me), when i finished i stood back like a proud little girl, beaming, and blurted right out loud, "oh, i am just tickled pink!". this is not something i tend to say. pink is not a color with which i am enamored - but say it i truly did, and then noticed beyond the dark studio doors a glimmer of the sunset skies draping themselves across my living room windows. how wonderful - o! how wonderful.

i sat here and imagined showing a photograph of myself standing at the doorway of the studio, all dolled up in a 1950's taffeta dress, hand outstretched, beckoning you into the newly redecorated splendor of my workspace, and had to laugh. here i sit, in pajamas, black framed eyeglasses (as you see in the photo above), hair looking not much different than it did when i first got out of bed. i'm proud, though. the studio does look good. i can see the surface of my table for the first time since i moved here, 2 1/2 years ago. it's white, or a dirty cream, an old church table that i purchased for all of $7.00 a presbyterian rummage sale and then covered with pages torn from an old french/english dictionary. i never see that surface anymore - how lovely to see it now again, ready for action. ready for magic. ready for inspiration.

i've walked in that room countless times last night, and again this morning, just to stand and stare. it makes me feel good to see my familiar trimmings and trinkets lovingly arranged, as opposed to thrown in piles haphazardly, fabric with paper, sticks with beads, tangled beyond recognition. this vintage desktop calendar organizer now brings me enormous pleasure, holding as it does some of the sticks and dowels that i use in my artwork and jewelry. no longer are half of them on the floor, or mixed up in barkcloth and linen. i use a great deal of vintage ribbon in my work, and if you'll go back and look at the shelves to the left of my table in the previous post, you'll see a great writhing pile of minerva-like strands tumbling out and over and down to the floor. at least now, for this time being (shall we time it?), the ribbons are contained in an old amber glass jar, as well as in a little three drawered chest - that is, until the first time i need the snippet that is assuredly at the bottom of the assortment. you don't want to be here when that happens.

it's daylight now, and a sunny day, so it's hard to imagine the wonderful effect of all those tiny lights on the tree branches and the vines draped across the window and (mighty heavy) antique mirror i've hung to add more light on the wall behind my table. but seeing these lights makes me actually long for the first snowflakes of december, and cups of chai and my favorite classical music floating in through the door. my goodness. a minor miracle has occurred, then. i'm actually wanting to be there, in that dark little room, and begin to work my fingers like an elf far up at the north pole, nimbly fashioning magic into ornaments that will bring comfort and cheer to those who carry or wear them. i look around me and see little vignettes of magic - a house here, a gathering of tiny dollies there - and do indeed feel surrounded by stories and comfort and all things sweet and serene. as i should be, in the place where i work and create. what's wonderful to imagine is the stories these little dolls may carry from here to there with them, when they leave their world of tree branches and tiny white lights, and go out into the greater world beyond, sent out by someone who has given them the beginning of a story, and urged them to tell the rest to those who will wear them close to their heart.

so. now you have seen the bad, and the good. the mess, and the tidy results of a maddening weekend of cleaning, sorting, throwing away. rearranging, hanging, huffing, cussing, wailing, and finally, standing back in utter amazement and puffing up with pride and thanking myself for taking the time - making the time - to pull off such a monumental feat. remind me, won't you, from time to time, that this nice look is good? and that i need to strive to keep things at least halfway this way? xo

i’m wearing purple tights today – purple tights and a celery green pullover top – oh, you betcha - because i am finally headed into that blasted studio, full on, and need something loud and bossy to shore me up.you see what i mean?abominable.i’m disgusted with my rat nest tendencies, but as i’ve discussed numerous times with friends, i do not think that my jewelry and artwork would be what it is without that spontaneous approach of grabbing things willy nilly from here and there, trinkets that have been knocking about on my tabletop for weeks or months or sometimes, even years, and wiring them together into a story that unfolds as it is formed.i am to the point now, though, that I can hardly walk into this tiny little bedroom-turned-studio, one that faces the north and becomes dark and uninviting with the coming winter months.if i had my way – with ample extra space (what’s that?I’ll never know, a novel thing) and also worlds of time on my hands to tinker around with arrangements and lighting (there is but one single outlet in this small space – imagine that, with flexshaft drill and dremel and engraver, four table lights, three french hens, two turtle doves, a heat gun, a polishing tumbler, and a dog named aspen), i would clear out one entire wall (all five feet of it) in one fell swoop, perhaps paint it in a soft and buttery old faded brick or ochre color, line it with tree branches and a simple wooden crate, set up an intimate shrine with candles and bowls, incense and small smooth stones, and hang tiny white lights from all those spindly tree branches.as it is, i think i’ll aspire to climb up on the ladder back chair, once i’ve cleared out the table and emptied the shelves, and string as many lights as I can without causing a fire, so that i’ll be able to walk into that dark, forboding room and with one pert flip of a switch (or four plugs of some strings, okay?) i’ll be able to transform that ominous space into a bit of a miraculous place where magic comes to life.you think?

"Dear Nina,Here is your horoscopefor Friday, November 9:

There's no need to keep things superficial today. In fact, the opposite is true: you need to dive in deeply if you want to get the most out of your experiences. Try to look beyond the surface of things."

Dear Nina,Here is your horoscopefor Saturday, November 10:

Though your life is good, you still want to try a few changes. Today is perfect for that and you should find that any modifications you make to your routines are much easier to deal with in the long run.

for now, i’m leaving you with a preview of delicious things to come.this box of treasures holds findings from my forays into antique shops i visited in virginia, as well as a couple of ones not too far from my quiet little house here on firefly road – some that were just up and over beautiful balsam mountain, east of here (and please, no special requests about anything you see here - the magic has to happen spontaneously; thanks for understanding).you’ll be seeing these "ornaments" come to life once again, with new stories of their own to tell, new memories to share, soon enough, soon enough...if i can ever make my way to that tabletop again, under those sparkling lights….

today is wednesday, and it feels like a monday to me. i've just returned from almost a week of total and complete relaxation with my parents out at their cabin up here in the mountains, a good 45 or 50 minutes' drive from here, where there is no television, no computer, no phone that rings, nothing to distract me from sitting quietly with my parents and drinking wine or tea, and talking, talking, talking (or simply sitting and being quiet together) into the morning, noon, and night. it was lovely, and i am always grateful - but not nearly as grateful as they - for the precious hours to spend with them, the three of us in good, clear health, reminiscing about old memories, laughing about recent stories, sharing new tales, and daddy always urging me to take more, more, more photographs (he doesn't remember that i've already taken one hundred from the month before, but bless him for prodding me to do so, and i did). i made the necklace i'm sharing with you here, again, for my jury entry to the southern highland craft guild, some two years ago, when i worried and fretted over which of my designs to choose and send for the three separate entries. this one seemed to me to represent the best of what i had to say, and its message speaks for me again today about the hours that these days seem distilled to their purest essence. another that i sent was a pair of earrings that simply state "ebb and flow", and o! how i strive to live by that creed. things do have their currents, their waves and their eddies, and i try with all my might to remember that whenever i feel myself beginning to feel stuck, or stymied.

i came home to a barrage of group emails regarding delays in a journal collaboration - one with twenty five participants, so it is easy to imagine how such a project might have an occasional hitch along its two year path - and in contemplating all the many times i've been involved in one collaboration or another, i began pulling out images from journals and art books i created years ago. how many of you remember true colors? what a powerful journey that was. i look back to the behemoth i created for the group to send around, in 2001, and wince - its spine was a hefty six inches, and the book itself, fashioned from an antique post card album, was a whopping 9 1/2 x 14 1/2". you can just imagine the weight involved. stupid me, i so very obviously was not thinking. each of us chose a color, and mine - since i work primarily in metals - was "metallics". again, imagine the weight. but also, imagine the sheer beauty of the finished result, once the journal came back to me in the end. a treasure! and so, i wait again, this time for my book of hands to come back to me, full to the brim with the artwork of twenty five incredible artists from across the country. it will happen, in due time. remember, ebb and flow.

i thought i'd share with you, too, a tiny little book that i made back in oh, 200o or 2001. if i remember correctly, this was in an article in somerset studio that will be republished soon in one of their gallery publications (my "pocketbook of dreams" article, from 2002). this tiny little gem of a book measures all of 2 1/2" x 4 1/2"; perhaps i should have stuck with that format for sending things through the mail?! but i look at this now, and can clearly see the influence of my own mother shining through - the intricate little stork scissors, the neat stitching 'round the edges (although i used wire, and she sticks to thread). the wording i attribute to my father, a poet at heart. so, through their hands and through their hearts, i came into this world, and it is ultimately my parents to whom i can be thankful for so much of who i am, for much of what i do.

here are some images from this past week with them, out on caney fork, in the beautiful little cabin that we love to call our home away from home, to share with all of you. be well.

a couple of days ago, my kindred misty wrote that she was having a bit of trouble finding inspiration in the studio, of late. goodness, do i ever know that feeling, one that i feel most of us as struggling artists do have, we who are seeking flow and ease of expression. she asked for any words on the matter, and mine were for her to simply walk around her house and look at it through the eyes of another - to see different corners, to look intently at small, "framed" spots, and imagine them as seen through a friend's eyes. i took it one step further and advised her to walk around with her trusty camera, as misty is quite good at doing outside of her own home, and snap still shots of small vignettes she might find pleasing, and to then begin to incorporate these into her lovely works of ethereal art. i would not have had this brainstorm of an idea, had i not just come back from being a guest in the lovely mawn household myself, where i was constantly walking around and taking photograph after photograph of beautiful little trinkets and talismans set up here and there, in windows and across manteltops, tables and shelves, in awe of the way she saw fit to arrange her gatherings and treasures. my own house is a cacophony, an explosion, of such gatherings - no room for anything more, have i, so full are my shelves of flotsam and jetsam, rocks and sticks and tattered old leather books, birds' nests and porcelain or wooden hands, eggs made of translucent carved stone, bowls containing worn beach glass or pottery shards or rocks in the shapes of hearts or eggs or simply stones that are round and in need of bringing in from the streams or the sea. to walk into this house is to walk into a haphazardous museum to the natural world, and to one of my own crazy choosing, and i've observed throughout the years the astounded looks on folks whenever they set foot through my front door for the very first time, utterly dumbfounded and amazed that so much can be contained in one small house in such a dizzying array of symphonic connectivity. i guess my point is to say all of what i just did because i do live here, and it is more difficult for me to appreciate or notice my own frowsy collections as much as the next person might (misty, say, or you, or you, or you), and it is easier for me to walk into her home and see the beauty of her arrangements for what they are, more than it is for her, who sees them every single day. and yet. a bathroom window, encased in a garland of leaves, fraught with images and trinkets, is beautiful in its early morning light when seen from a distance through an open door. the simple old panes have symmetry, and gave me cause to finally stop and pull the camera out, to capture what i saw. when walking through her studio, i stopped and turned to see the window facing into the front porch, and marveled over how she'd hung a beautiful piece of fabric i'd brought back from a shop in newtown, sydney, australia, its colors draping ever so nicely over a vision of the striped hammock where the children like to linger in the late fall afternoons. why would this not be a beautiful thing to paint? it is certainly a beautiful thing to remember.

time is such an ethereal thing, something that slips through our fingers like mercury - here one minute, gone the next - or, changed into something new to replace what was once here before. so, for that one reason, among many others, i walk around with my beloved camera taking photo after photo after photo of where i am going, where i have been, so i'll remember and recognize all the faces, all the places and can make them be a part of wherever i'll also be suspended for one brief, fleeting moment. i take twenty photographs for the five that i'll keep, and out of those five, i'll recall perhaps one that will stand out in my memory somewhere down the road. but take them, i say. carry your camera with you when you walk out in the yard , so you won't forget to capture that magnificent light coming in through the trees, carry it with you when you jump into a car jam packed with wonderful people, so full that poor kevin had to sit in the back wedged in the middle between two beaming little bundles of sunshine because my big bottom would assuredly not fit between those two car seats; carry your camera with you when you walk from room to room to room, following a precious friend around her house and seeing all she has to show and share, and taking photos of those things so that you can show and share back with her in return. life is good, that way. it really, really is. xo